Whip Smart
by iscariot
Summary: Lady Heather, on life, Grisson and short wrinkled guys
1. Default Chapter

So here we go, something completely different. I am still working on Song for the Solo Dancer, but wanted to pursue another idea or two.

Tell me what you think, should I continue this, a Grissom/ Lady Heather love story?

I love Lady Heather, she's like Catherine, but without the pretensions, and I think she's perfect for Grissom. It must be the goth in me I guess.

Super, huge thanks to the wonderful 'Tasha, for her inspired beta-ing on this. She's the only person I don't know in person who writes longer beta responses than the actual piece of work. She's stopped me prevaricating, she's kept me on track, she looked after Lady Heather's voice…..and she nags worse than my mother. Thank You.

_ And now the beat inside me_

_Is a sort of a cold breeze and I've_

_Never any feeling inside_

_Ruining me…_

_Bring my body_

_Carry it into another world_

_I know I live…but like a stone I'm falling down_

Falling Again – Lacuna Coil 

I make no apologies, I am who I am. 

It might be that acceptance, that self-belief that troubles others, that causes them to shy away, or call me "harlot" behind my back.

Common thought would have it that I should show some shame for who I am, for what I do; that I am somehow less respectable because I deal with that part of the human psyche that the prim and proper consider somehow wrong. But then, polite society has always feared emotion, unless that emotion has been ruthlessly brought to heel and muzzled. 

But then it has always been fear, which has held us back. 

Fear of the unknown.

Fear of the different.

But most of all fear of the self, of what lies within. 

It just wouldn't be proper for that righteous Christian woman to lay down her bible for a moment and enjoy the unfettered spirit of who they are, or who they might be, instead they bind themselves, with rules, with lies, with deceptions of who and what they are…..simply because they are afraid.

But he was different, and so for that matter was his friend whom he'd obviously brought along for comic relief.

I'd occasionally seen the friend before. Not him, specifically, but his type. Tired, world-weary and cynical, but still-retaining some vague belief that the world wouldn't such a bad place if all the scum were quietly rounded up and herded off a cliff. To him I wasn't scum, to him I was merely incidental. If it hadn't been my girl that died then my existence was moot. That it was merely brought me into the orbit of his work. I could have been an astronaut or a cowboy and he would have treated me the same.

But the other, he saw me, and that was the beginning.

I remember my mother, a strong woman, a good woman, weighed down by a world that was neither cruel nor harsh, but indifferent; even the strong wilt through lack of attention. My father, however, was not indifferent and at times I think it was only his brutality that kept my mother going; at least the self-hatred he articulated through his violence in some perverse way affirmed my mother's existence. 

My father never touched me. 

Not out of hate, 

never in anger; 

never with love.

I'm not sure what I would have done if he had.

Don't believe those who say that those of us, who work, for want of a better word - because this is not a job synonymous with industrialised detachment - in the industry, come from a history of abuse; if anything, I was abused more by a system that prided itself in recognising the mediocre and rewarding the homogenous. Square pegs and round holes doesn't even begin to describe trying to fit into a system where white, middle-class and hetero-sexual were not so much the norm as a pre-requisite. 

Society holds that conforming is good, that conforming teaches you how to belong to, and participate in, a community. All I ever saw was conforming teaching people to hate and to use stereotypes instead of thought to determine action. The mind of the madding crowd is neither coherent, nor characterised by a penetrating intelligence, and the pressures generated are more than likely to lead to internal combustion than a startling epiphany. It's like Rita Mae brown said: 'The reward for conformity is that everyone likes you except yourself.'

It's never the loners that I see, nor the outcasts, only those for whom the conformity has become more than they can bear. The greater the responsibility, the greater the likelihood of falling, but the power that comes with reaching the alpha position is an aphrodisiac so intoxicating that removing themselves from it's leech-like hold is something that cannot be. It's like Milton's Satan personified, to reign ma indeed be worth ambition, though in hell, but the hell in which they reign becomes little different than the perceived heaven for which they strive. So they come, singly, in stillness, undercover, masked, seeking solace in a place they openly revile in their conscious orations.

Anyway, pardon my soapbox.

From him there was no condemnation, only curiosity. At first I thought it simply the type of interest one such as himself devoted to a piece of evidence, his need to understand driven more by classificatory urges than any sort of genuine interest.  

"What do you do?" he asked.

Not why, what. So few can free themselves from the almost reflexive need to judge, perhaps there is something to be said for clinical detachment.    

What do I do? Now there's the rub.

I'm not about sex. Sex is mechanics. 

Don't misunderstand, I'm not dismissing sex, it, like many things, brings its own rewards, and it can be fun when you're with someone who needs neither a tutorial or a roadmap to get things moving. But seriously, what do you get from sex other than momentarily pleasure and an ever-expanding laundry bill? Sure, some may argue that it's an expression of love, of sharing and affection; so are flowers and chocolates.

Yes, I guess I am a cynic, but then sex is used as a weapon it hurts a lot more than a slap in the face with a bunch of flowers. 

So no, I'm not about sex. 

I'm not about pain either, at least not in the physical sense, that's what football's for. Yes, my staff do utilise various accoutrements, which could be considered as pain inducing, but that's not the point, if you want to get beaten up, go to a bar, in the long run it's cheaper and probably more effective. Please note, there is a huge difference between receiving a "beating" and being "beaten": for a start there's no safety word in a fight: except maybe, 'Police'.

He asked me that. "Why do you hurt people?"

"We don't."

"But they scream and the beg and they cry, surely that is pain."

"That is their pain, not ours. In some cases that is why they are here."

"But isn't pain a private thing?"

"Only if you know how to express it. Many people don't, and it gnaws at them until they simply can't cope. Put it this way, it's either me, or Jerry Springer, take your pick."

The distant look in his eyes spoke volumes.

There is a large gap between what is said and reality. Merely having the words is never enough; emotion is too raw for mere words. Theory, for that is all that words are gives people the opportunity to hide; and hiding is what people do best.

"Isn't that what you do with the evidence? Stop people hiding?"

"But those people have done something wrong."

"There are some duties we owe even to those who have wronged us. There is, after all, a limit to retribution and punishment."

"Cicero?" 

"Indeed. Tell me, who are we, especially in a place such as this, to determine what is right or wrong within someone's mind? You search for those who transgress the laws of society, but there are other laws, and it is those transgressions, real or imagined, which brings people here."

Punishment is a misunderstood concept; how can you punish someone who comes to you of their own volition? Certainly, in their own minds some of these people deserve punishment. What we provide is catharsis, not a judgement; we don't have that right. 

The problem with punishment is that it is based on assumption, the assumption that you are serving the greater good by treating a person in a certain way because of their actions. Within society, it is believed that by punishing transgressors you provide some form of closure for their victims, a release, if you will. The problem is of course, that what is considered just by some, only makes things worse for others. We punish by discretion, the discretion of the client, for whom else can truly choose what is mete for them. 

The humorous, wrinkled one understands this.

My parents never did. 

It is harder to decide what was worse, the violent explosions or the inevitable silence that followed. The lack of sound was a disturbing thing; its unnaturalness only emphasized the uncertainty of what it presaged: an uneasy peace or an opportunity for the combatants to catch their breath. For my parents, it was generally the latter, and like trench-warfare combatants, nothing was learnt from the surcease of battle; silence was simply a signal to reload.     

I, too, learned to fight; but it was in the silence left by my parents that I gained my education. In some ways silence and shadow became my confidantes and my lovers, coiling themselves intimately around me as I watched and learned, watching as others paraded their lives with the arrogant abandon that comes from caring nothing for consequences as they revel in their assumed immortality. 

We think we're bulletproof, indestructible; we know we're not. 

I think maybe he realises that I don't claim to be bulletproof, I claim only to be myself but when I'm with him the silence becomes worthy of Bogart and Bacall.


	2. A Coin Has Two Sides

Well, here we are, chapter two. A few notes: [1] This is not canon [2] This is not canon [3] Yes, I'm twisted, and this is not canon. I've always thought there was more to Grissom that the common representation. Scratch a geek and you'll find the hint of deviance, of being incorrectly wired, that's why we're geeks, we don't really fit. Grissom, to my mind, has always been what he is because he has never encountered the spark that fires the deviance - not that you'll ever see a latex-clad Grissom in one of my fics [bad mental image]. For me, Lady Heather is Grissom's spark. She's mine too [sorry, sorry, sorry..to much information] G/S and G/C shippers will probably want to lynch me...oh well. Thanks to the wonderful 'tasha, who thinks I nuts, but reads a mean Beta - she should be bronzed, but then of course she'd be no use.. For those interested, there is another chapter of Song for the Solo Dancer coming soon, however, I just have to swim out of the angst.   
  
A Coin Has Two Sides  
  
I'm not completely oblivious. Nor so consumed by my work that I am unaware of the world around me: the social world that is, not the forensic world. The encroaching wall of silence made inevitable by my loss of hearing is, if anything, sharpening my powers of observation. Unfortunately my hearing loss hasn't progressed to the point where it completely blocks out Greg's alleged music; but if worst comes to worst, I can always stick a pencil in my ear.  
  
Accusations of my living in an ivory tower are, to some extent, justified. What is, perhaps, not understood, is that I choose such an existence. I fully understand the implications behind the comments, behind the subtle jibes, but I have more interesting things to concern myself with than the mundanity of an ostensibly normal existence. I do understand that my friends speak out of concern and not from a deluded place of superiority, and indeed, if I was younger and less content I would possibly pay closer attention to their suggestions. At the very least, hindsight has allowed me to see the merits of their viewpoint; it's one of the reasons why I encourage Sara to get out and do things - things other than overtime that is - life is too short to live with regrets. As the philosopher, Sinatra said:  
  
For what is a man, what has he got? If not himself, then he has naught. To say the things he truly feels; And not the words of one who kneels. The record shows I took the blows - And did it my way!  
  
I am well aware that Sara is interested, as I said I'm not oblivious. But what I also am not, is interested. It's not about age. Nor my status as her boss. Yes, she is attractive, yes, she is intelligent, and yes she has a wonderful personality, obsessive though it is - and if anyone should know about obsessive personalities it's me - the point is that she is a colleague and a friend and that's it.  
  
Others have suggested that perhaps Catherine and I should get together; the only person more amused and horrified by that suggestion is Catherine. We've worked together for far too long, and been friends for almost the same length of time, to know better. In some ways our attitude to an office relationship is the same, it's a bad idea, at least, that is, when it comes to each other. Also, I would rather spare myself the unpleasant experience of Warrick trying to gut me, if I initiated something with Catherine. It amuses me that the only person that doesn't know that Warrick is interested is Catherine. Fair's fair I suppose, since the only person who doesn't know she's interested in him, is Warrick. I understand that Nick and Greg have set up a sweepstake as to which of them is going to figure it out first; my bet would be split evenly as they're both obviously equally clueless - and people think I'M oblivious.  
  
I have resigned myself to being alone. Wistful? Certainly. But not regretful. Some things are not meant to be. My mother understands, she always said that things happen in their own time, 'Inshallah', she'd say; 'If God wills it'.  
  
Then she appeared and all I could think was that God has a twisted sense of humour.  
  
To be specific to say that she 'appeared' implies that she sprang forth from the head of a god or floated in on a shell; neither is the case. Despite the lack of overt divinity there is, however, an air of overripe sensuality, a taint of corruption that surrounds her, that marks her as different, that makes her...enticing.  
  
As seems to be the case I only meet people through death - fortunately, in this instance, she wasn't the corpse, although some may wish otherwise - but in death there are many things that are not as they seem.  
  
By her very nature she is deemed inappropriate. Morality argues that her position contravenes the clear demarcation between the light and dark sides of society, but I am not driven by morality. I am driven by the evidence. She has, at times, said that I am a slave to the empirical, to that which can be observed, but in reality we are all slaves to something no matter how much we strive those ties that bind be they made of iron or silk.  
  
I do not know what binds her. I am not sure I want to know. What I do know is that her mask of reserve hides something that is perhaps best left alone.  
  
Thus I find it hard to define her, inasmuch as she allows definition.  
  
"Must you classify?" she asks.  
  
"It's what I do".  
  
"And when you've figured me out will you place me on a shelf somewhere, to be pulled out and dusted off on special occasions?"  
  
"Classification leads to greater understanding, I want to understand; I am not a collector."  
  
I think she was relieved that I had no intention of dosing her with chloroform and mounting her in a display case; John Fowles has a lot to answer for.  
  
I understand what she means though, if we're honest with ourselves our society is based upon putting a label on everything and thus the thing labelled becomes safe; I'm told that part of my job involves making the world safe - perhaps I need more labels?  
  
However, to quote Wilde, 'The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible', and as she has pointed out on numerous occasions, nothing is as it seems.  
  
I really need more labels.  
  
Strangely enough, Jim understands. Labels that is. Of all the people I know he is possibly the least judgemental. Although what he lacks in judgement he makes up for in cynicism. She confuses him; she doesn't allow him to reconcile his intuition with his training, however, I think he's more concerned about what I'm thinking.  
  
I think it's a police thing  
  
Then again his is not the cynicism derived from trite intellectualising but from having his rose-coloured glasses trampled on once to often yet still managing to believe that there is something out there that isn't corrupt, that isn't, by it's very nature, a profane rendering of the sacred.  
  
Maybe that's the crux, which we all struggle to reconcile, the oppositions in our world. Then again, opposites attract - or so I'm told.  
  
Maybe it's instinct? Previously, I had thought my instinct was extinct. Then again, the irony that she is involved in a business panders to our baser instincts is somewhat mete .  
  
"If they are our instincts are they not part of who we are?"  
  
Even the most robust puritan couldn't argue with that. Perhaps they close their eyes?  
  
"Certainly, but we are now civilised, we strive to improve, to sublimate our baser urges."  
  
"Then civilisation is overrated, to quote Emerson: 'The end of the human race will be that it will eventually die of civilization,'"  
  
There's not a lot you can say to that really. 


End file.
